


The Newly Broken World

by scathecraw



Series: SHAZAM - The New Champion [2]
Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Justice League - All Media Types, Shazam! | Captain Marvel (Comics)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-03-24
Updated: 2019-04-07
Packaged: 2019-12-07 00:25:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,982
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18227426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scathecraw/pseuds/scathecraw
Summary: The wizard has died. Now his works are being undone. Can Billy and his new powers prevent an ancient apocalypse from destroying the world?





	1. Bolt

At the very moment that the Wizard’s heart stopped beating, the world changed irrevocably.

A thousand small evils awoke from their stasis and began to piece back together their shattered forms. All sought to corrupt and destroy the hope that spurred humans to do good and kind things to others, but of special note were the great sins - the Seven Deadly Enemies. Of all the evil defeated and pushed back by the ceaseless effort of the Wizard, the Seven were among the worst. So powerful, and so corrupt were they, that Mamaragan could not scatter them to dust like the small evils that he had crushed so often. All he could do was trap them in stone and keep them close, where his power could force them to lie dormant.

But now he was gone, and there was nothing stopping their reawakening. It was a slow process, and time moved strangely on the Rock. Days, weeks, months. It all blurred into a slow emergence, like waking from a coma. Each of the seven felt their brothers and sisters around them, and knew that their time to return had come.

Miles and worlds away, Billy Batson, Champion of the gods, felt like he was drowning under the stress of it all. His normal life as a young man, his duty as Shazam, and the careful balancing act that kept the two from colliding violently required constant maintenance. He was more tired than anyone had a right to be. His (mostly) excellent grades were slipping. He was getting up early to get his work done, trying to keep the few friends he had, working at the job that he had tried so hard and been so lucky to get, and learning the overwhelming skills that came with being Shazam.

He felt like he was slowly getting used to it, though. Especially when he was able to fly above the clouds, completely alone, breathing in the clean air. He could feel the vigor that he knew innately to be the stamina of Atlas pumping through his veins and recharging his tired body. His mind felt sharper, too. Even when he was Billy, he could feel the whisper of Solomon’s wisdom call its secrets from across the void. It was nothing compared to the power he held in his hands as Shazam, though; Shazam’s power was lightning in his blood. It was the best that he had ever felt, better than anyone had ever felt! The thrill of doing what only a superhero could do would never get old.

He had stopped a bus collision just a few days after the hydra was destroyed.

There was no thought, no inkling of “What should I do?” Just action. In a heartbeat, he had shouted to call down the lightning that transformed him and leapt into action. He carried the unstable bus to safety, scaring its passengers and denting the undercarriage some, but there were a dozen people surrounding him and thanking him. He had seen people act like this, but not around normal people. Certainly not around teenage orphans. They weren’t seeing him, they were seeing the bolt across his chest and his stature. They only saw the hero. That’s when the reality of what he had committed to finally hit him. Fighting the hydra, meeting Superman, everything that had happened so far was nothing compared to the realization that these people didn’t know him, or what he could do, and they trusted him. He was their hero, just by being present. He was their protector, their Champion.

He was Shazam.


	2. Ground

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the darkness, a mastermind subtly guides an unknowing minion for a secret plot.

“And here we have a Greek  _ pithos _ , on loan to Fawcett City from the private collection of Ms. Diana Prince, a noted antiquities collector and an expert at their restoration. She’s contributed a great number of items to this exhibit, and we are beyond thankful that they had not yet arrived before the… incident a few weeks ago. She believes that these artefacts should be connected to stories you may have heard, and has asked us to tell those stories. This item, in fact, is close to what anthropologists believe to be the proto-mythic “Pandora’s Box” – a container that the myth says was possessed by the gods that had all of the evils of the world trapped within it. Now over here we have…”

“This curator lady could learn a thing or two about keeping a crowd entertained, that’s for sure,” Billy muttered to the nearly comatose Eddie. The curator’s almost monotone had a large portion of the crowd nearly drifting off, despite their interest in the material. Billy was almost one of them, but was doing his best to stay conscious, not only because it was his job, but because the Wisdom of Solomon told him that knowledge of these myths might be useful someday. After all, just a month and a half ago he thought that ancient heroes and gods were less real than fairy tales.

As they walked around the expansive museum exhibit, gawping at the vast collection of artefacts and taking careful notes (his job was turning out to be fantastic cover for his other identity), he felt himself pulled inexorably towards an  _ amphora _ , cracked and broken, but shimmering with an unseen power. None of the other guests seemed to notice it, and the curator paid it no special mind until after her presentation, when she wandered the floor, answering questions that the guests might have. Eddie had wandered off to get a drink of water and visit the gift shop, but Billy was still laser focused on the ancient jar, pulled to it like a magnet. The curator stood by him, looking at it, and broke the silence. “It’s a nicely decorated amphora, isn’t it? A shame it’s broken.”

Billy was startled out of his silence “Oh! Yes, it’s… nice. Is there anything special about it?”

“Not particularly. It’s a very old one, to be sure, and well made for its age, but nothing too special.”

But Billy saw differently. Looking at it with the eyes of the gods, he could see a shimmering form, whole and unbroken, emanating power as if it had never been broken. There was magic at work here. Godly magic, he could feel it in his bones.

The curator’s voice broke into his reverie. “There are some in much better shape, but less historically prominent. I see your press pass, let’s see if we can get a volunteer to give you a tour of the rest of the collection. We wouldn’t want you to lack a story!”

“Thanks ma’am. I appreciate it. This stuff is pretty cool.”

 

* * *

 

 

Ten thousand miles away, a man directed his crew to start digging into the sand. He felt pulled towards an area of the desert just north of Egypt, drawn like a fish on a line. Some inaudible voice spoke to him, encouraging him, promising him everything he wanted.

Thaddeus Bodog Sivana was not a man to be crossed. He had built himself from nothing. The only son of poor parents, he had built an induction motor from scratch by the age of eleven, and only then enrolled in high school. He was quickly passed through classes, moving on to independent study in Chemistry, Physics, and Mathematics by his sophomore year. It was at this time that his parents died. His older sister, sickly from her youth, was diagnosed with a genetic disease, prompted by an unlucky double copy of an already lethal genetic condition. It was a death sentence for both of them.

His sister was only nineteen when she was consigned to hospice care. He swore to do everything he could to save her, but despite nearly living in the library and laboratory, there were limits to what he could do with the resources at hand. So he found better resources. He proposed a deal with a businessman who had recently invested in cutting-edge pharmacology and traded his breakthrough theories for access to technology on the very bleeding edge of science.

But it wasn’t enough.

His sister passed away at the age of twenty-four.

And he was told that in a matter of years, he would too.

Thaddeus Bodog Sivana, honorary doctorate from two universities, was the driving force in curing four separate genetic diseases and saving thirteen hundred lives by his direct intervention. And there was nothing he could do to save himself, his sister, or his parents.

He worked feverishly until he collapsed at the age of twenty-seven, showing the same systemic autoimmune failure as his family did.

For all the life-extending treatments he had developed, he could only delay his own decline. It was hopeless, and with science failing him, he turned to the occult. He delved into the depths of magic, parsing legends and lore from true secrets. His secure laboratory was closed to him when a rising Lexcorp purchased the company he had worked at, adding it to the conglomerate bulk, but the small fortune that he had built from his research sustained him. He found that although the arcane secrets of magic were simple for him to learn and even extrapolate upon, he could not use magic himself. But the answers were out there. And he had devised a foolproof, scientific basis for finding them.

Then the world changed, and the dregs of magic that had been floating around were nothing compared to the power he could track and find now. He had a good feeling about this site. Ancient Sumerian texts mentioned a man beyond mortal strength; Egyptian myths called him a son of Ra, equivalent to the pharaohs. Teth-Adam. Black Adam. There was magic in his grave, and Sivana would find it.

So he had his men dig, deep into the sand that nearly buried the monument. They dealt with setback after setback, strong winds or shifting sands spilling over the protective walls they built, but eventually reached the goal – at the base of the monument, there was a sealed door, marked by a lightning bolt. He sent the workers off on a break, as a ‘reward’, while he looked at the doorway.

He was spurred on by something in the back of his mind, something that pushed him beyond caution or care. He brought his tools to the doorway, clearing out sand and grit that hadn’t seen the light of day for millenia, and began to pry it open. It was surprisingly easy to move the door, despite the age of the stone, and Sivana rushed inside after opening it.

Only to find an empty tomb.

It was a small monument, and there were only a few items present. Dust clouded the air, making Sivana choke and cough as he searched frantically. He was so certain that the answer, or the start of one, would be here. He was sure of it. But there was nothing. Even now, he was still mindful of what he had found, and restrained his rage from lashing out while he was in this historical site. He lasted until he got just outside. He slammed the door shut and pounded the walls with his fists, crying as his hopes were dashed again.

He swung his fist once more, hitting the door – directly on the lightning bolt symbol, its faint glow choked by the grime that covered it. When it was struck, the ancient stone, already weakened by time and erosion, cracked, and the power intended to serve as a warning and symbol for visitors flashed out, crackling and sparking, directly into Sivana. It struck him in the face, very near his right eye, shocking and burning him.

His screams drew the workers back from their break, and they rushed to aid their benefactor. As Sivana writhed in pain, the workers saw the gruesome injury that he had sustained, and the foreman knew he had to be brought back to civilization for treatment. They rushed back to the city, using what little first aid they had available to treat the burns, but there was nothing they could do for his bleeding and sizzling right eye.


	3. Static

A hundred million kilometers away, alone in the hopeless reaches of space, a man floated, lost for eons and still seething with rage. Even in the silence of space, he heard the shatter of the symbol on the tomb, like glass. The first sound he had heard in centuries. He had floated for what seemed an eternity, but now he knew his way back. That sound had provided the direction. He accelerated towards his planet, speeding faster, faster, calling upon the speed of Mercury, so fast it was as if he were the lightning itself. He was going home.

 

* * *

“Billy, you have mail!” A boy, around five, ran in through Billy and Freddy’s open door to deliver a lone letter to Billy as he sat doing his homework.

Freddy reclined on his bed, procrastinating and surfing the internet, looking for news of the weird and mysterious, as well as the general superhero news he was always up to date on. “That another letter from Mr. Kent?” he asked.

“Yeah. He has a lot of good advice for my job, even though he does newspaper stuff. Sophia said that next time he’s in town, I could interview him for the show. She said it’d be good practice if I want to do something bigger than community stuff,” Billy responded as he opened the letter.

Freddy’s was happy to hear about his friend’s achievement, but his laser focus never wavered from the laptop he held or the superheroes it talked about. “That’s cool. Think he knows Superman? Lois Lane does, and they both work at the Daily Planet."

“I don’t think so. He seems like a bit of a scaredy-cat, so I bet he runs whenever there’s something Superman would show up for. I mean, the only reason he wrote me was because I had a better view of the hydra at the museum and he wanted to write about the kid reporter.”

Freddy nodded distractedly. Billy got to work opening and reading the letter. He always marveled at how conversational the letters were compared to how professional Mr. Kent’s news stories were.

“Billy,

I heard your piece on the Greek artifact exhibit at the museum. It was a good story, and had some fantastic detail. It really captured the imagination, especially your descriptions of how they must have looked new and whole. I might just have to take a trip down the road to see it. I just hope it’s a little less eventful than my last visit to Fawcett.

Make sure that when you are presenting something as objective as the news, it’s not opinion, though. It can give people the wrong idea if you’re not clear whether or not something is fact or feeling. The truth is always important to keep in mind when you have the influence you do. I’ve found that a good way of dealing with this….”

Billy set down the letter, unfinished. He’d get to it after dinner. Honestly, Billy found that a lot of Mr. Kent’s advice applied to being Shazam as much as it applied to his job. It must come with being good at giving advice that it applied to a lot of stuff all at at once. Either way, he was glad Mr. Kent was willing to help him out – he had a lot of stuff going on, and advice from a real reporter was a lifesaver. Superman’s talk told him it would be tough to have a normal life and be a superhero at the same time, but Billy hadn’t really realized how hard it really was. That must be why Superman lived at the Fortress of Solitude. Maybe he had tried having two lives and given up. But there was way too much going on for Billy to give up on being Billy to just be Shazam. And one of them was talking right now.

Freddy finally stopped putting off his studying, just in time for Hayman’s deep voice to call out for dinner. “Perfect timing,” he said. Billy helped him stand and passed him his crutch, as he usually did. Freddy could stand up on his own, but always appreciated the assist. They headed down to dinner, making bets on what soup or stew Hayman made today.

 

* * *

Sivana was alive. He had barely survived the bolt of lightning that had struck his face, and he had been crushed by the news that he would not see out of his right eye again, but the hopelessness faded with the swelling and bruising that obscured that half of his face. He was never particularly handsome, though he had always had an intelligent charm to him. Now he was homely. A full quarter of his face was swallowed by a puckered burn scar, untreatable from the hours of transit it had taken to get him to proper treatment. But, and he kept this secret from the doctors, he could see some things out of his destroyed eye.

He could see the leylines and static crawling of magic as it traveled around him. He could see a patient’s belief in a placebo treatment that made it more than just a sugar pill. He could see the current of life in the earth that pulsed and shifted with the hours of the day, the phase of the moon, a thousand small changes that brought the world alive. No, he couldn’t read a book or other mundane things, but he had another eye for that. He could see far more with his ruined eye than anyone else could with two good ones. And he wasn’t done yet. He would follow this magic to his very end, to the center of it all. He would understand everything about it, manipulate it, and he would use it to heal himself. He would live, or die trying.


End file.
